


through ups and downs

by carefulren



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Sick Martin, Sickfic, Whump, Whumpfic, also Jon be struggling with normal human feelings, and is temporarily living in the archives, set after Martin gives his Jane Prentiss statement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Martin winds up ill after pursuing a follow-up in the rain, and Jon struggles with feelings and offers his apartment to Martin for a few days.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 159





	through ups and downs

Jon’s half-way through a statement, teetering between getting lost within the panicked narrative and trashing the written document for it’s apparent lack of rationalization and validity, when the door slams open hard enough to rattle the walls. 

Martin’s standing in the doorway, absolutely drenched through yet beaming from ear to ear. It makes Jon’s eye twitch, and he rests his index finger on the stop button of his tape recorder, just in case. 

Martin’s shoes squelch loudly as he walks into the room, and behind his lips, Jon grits his teeth sharply, thinking of the mess he’ll have to clean from the droplets of water all but pouring off Martin. 

When Martin starts prattling on about a potential lead from a statement Jon had assigned him a few days prior, Jon wordlessly presses “Stop” on his tape recorder and rests both palms atop his knees under his desk, his fingers curling around tightly until they’re digging into his knees. Still, he holds his composure and silently waits for Martin to finish. 

“I know I’ve interrupted you,” Martin sputters, “but I really think we have something here, Jon.”

Jon sucks in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He considers chastising Martin for dwelling on a case he deemed close two days ago; however, he has to admit that Martin’s findings have piqued his interest, enough that he may consider reviewing the statement with Martin’s updated information, that is if he can find a long enough gap within his work day to squeeze in this unplanned development. 

“You’re drenched,” Jon mutters, eyes slowly honing in on a drop of water that’s clinging to a damp strand of Martin’s hair, pooling toward the end, until it drops and slides down his temple. “You’re making a rather soggy mess of my office.” 

“Ah, sorry!” Martin leaps to his feet and backs toward the doorway, and Jon carefully watches Martin’s face pull in different directions of conflict. 

“I’ll go grab some napkins! Be right back!” 

Before Jon can utter a word, Martin’s disappeared from the doorway, the faint sounds of his shoes squeaking fading to dull echoes against the towering walls. Jon sighs deeply, stiffened shoulders all but deflating against a weight of annoyance and something else he can’t quite pinpoint.

He turns his focus, instead, to the details Martin’s verbally shared, and he finds himself turning to relocate the filed statement when Martin returns with a handful of crumpled napkins and a rather sheepish expression that’s paired with tinged-pink cheeks. 

“I’m really sorry about the mess, Jon, but I’ll have this cleaned up in no time!” 

Martin drops to his knees and begins mopping up small puddles of water, and Jon watches silently, eyes narrowed and taking in the soft shudders that seem to shoot up and down Martin’s spine and the sodden clothing now so tight, it appears as if a second layer of damp, clammy skin that has to be rather uncomfortable. 

Jon clears his throat. “Martin.” 

“Almost done-”

“-Martin,” Jon presses, lips snapping tightly around each letter. 

Martin freezes, hand mid swipe, and he pulls a hesitant gaze toward Jon. 

“Go change,” he nods toward the doorway. “I can take care of this.” He watches Martin’s mouth open and close slowly, and he can almost hear Martin’s rapid thoughts. 

“Go,” he repeats. I’m very busy.” 

Slowly, Martin gets up to his feet and wraps his arms around himself with a small shiver that Jon frowns at. 

“If you’re sure-”

“-I’m sure,” Jon finishes, and Martin nods, a word of genuine thanks falling off his lips as he exits the office, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Jon spares a glance toward the wad of napkins on his office floor, nudges it around with his foot halfheartedly, and decides it can wait for his mind keeps wandering toward the information Martin provided. He drops back into his chair, a newfound course of energy pulling at him, and begins reviewing the statement, plugging in Martin’s information as he goes along. 

\---------

Jon can hear Martin’s loud keyboard tapping before he approaches the small, open office. By sound alone, Martin’s typing furiously, and Jon ponders briefly over which statement Martin could be working so intently on when he finally pops into the doorway, leaning lightly against the door frame and knocking softly on the opened door.

Martin jumps violently, almost knocking a cup of tea over when both hands shoot up from his keyboard and bang loudly against his desk on their way to cover his face. It takes a few long seconds, Jon notes, for Martin to move his arms away from his face, one hand slipping to rest against his heaving chest. 

Jon studies Martin’s wide, panicked eyes, and... oh, right. The worms, and Jane Prentiss, and the repetitive door knocking. “My apologies,” he drags out. “I didn’t intend to startle you.” 

Martin swallows thickly; Jon watches the slow bob of his adam’s apple. 

“No, it’s quite alright. I guess I’m still a bit bothered by... well, you know.” 

Nodding, Jon crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side slightly, contemplating if Martin’s voice has always held that color of rasp or if something else is going on. He drags a slow gaze to Martin’s face, to his flushed cheeks, to the damp perspiration clinging lightly to his temples. 

“-Jon? Are you alright?” 

Jon forces his gaze to Martin’s eyes, wiping the image of his too-rosy cheeks from his mind just as quickly as he honed in on the sight. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was just asking if you needed something.” Martin casts his eyes to his hands folded in his lap. “You don’t often stop by.”

“Ah, yes,” Jon mutters, clearing his throat. “I just wanted to come tell you that your findings today redirected the statement’s narrative enough that I’m willing to reopen the case file to explore further outcomes.”

“That’s good!” Martin’s beaming again, such an odd, warm contrast to his poor pallor, Jon thinks. 

“I’m glad to have--” Martin’s voice hitches, and he turns to sneeze sharply into the crook of his arm-- “helped,” he finishes, sniffling, and Jon unwillingly takes note of the congestion thickening Martin’s tone. 

Jon only frowns at him, and Martin laughs lightly, nervously, and he snags a tissue for his nose. “Sorry, I’m feeling a bit worn down after, well,” he gestures helplessly to the pile of wet clothes in the corner of his office, and Jon’s eyes fall to the clothing, and he can’t help but shiver slightly.

“Right,” Jon mutters, turning from Martin’s office. “Well, good work,” he adds, reluctantly, and he starts out of the office, choosing to not address the loud “thank you” that echoes from Martin’s office as he starts back to the archives. 

\---------

Jon’s focus the remainder of the day is wavering, voice abruptly halting every time he hears the faint echoes of Martin’s coughing or sneezing. Twice, he almost slips from his office to send Martin home for he’s too loud and distracting, but then he remembers that, for the time being, this institute is Martin’s home. 

He organizes, instead, for his last hour, teeth gritting harder and harder the sicker Martin sounds, and it’s a few minutes near closing time when he picks up on Tim and Sasha talking with Martin through the gap below his door. 

_“Are you sure you don’t want to come stay with one of us?”_

Sasha, Jon thinks, sounding quite concerned. 

_“You really do look and sound terrible, Martin. You’d be much more comfortable with one of us.”_

_“I couldn’t impose, but I do appreciate the offer. I’ll be quite alright here. Thank you, though.”  
_

Frowning, Jon listens to the two reluctantly leave Martin, and he listens to hear Martin shuffling down the hall, presumably to the small room with the cot he’s been sleeping in. 

He should leave well enough alone, let Martin get his rest, but when he leaves his office for the day, bag heavy with his tape recorder and statements, he hesitates, feet faltering just a few steps before the makeshift bedroom. He can hear the cot creaking under Martin’s weight and seemingly restless shifting, and that odd feeling from before, the one he’s yet to pinpoint an appropriate word to, comes back, swelling hot in his chest. He steps in front of the closed door and raises his fist to knock, thinking better of it and calling out instead. 

“Martin. I’m coming in.” 

He opens the door slowly to see Martin struggling to sit up on the bed and coughing into his fist. 

“Jon, what’re you-”

Jon holds a single hand up, signaling for Martin to stop talking, and Martin does, coughing instead, deep, wet coughs that Jon almost wishes to shrink away from. He can see Martin’s muscles straining against each cough, and when Martin catches his breath, he shoves himself upright fully on shaking arms and drags the light blanket over his shoulders. 

“Sorry, I guess my little run in the rain’s left me rather poorly.” 

Jon finds a small stain on the rather hideous area rug, and he stares hard at it, fingers tightening around the strap of is bag. He, of all people, knows how uncomfortable this room can be, as he’s only managed a few hours here or there at the most. He can’t begin to fathom Martin being able to rest comfortably in here, not while taken ill. 

He just only wishes Martin would’ve taken Tim or Sasha up on their offers because then, he wouldn’t be standing here, feeling somehow responsible for Martin. 

“Jon?”

“If you’d like,” Jon starts, swallowing thickly, “you may come spend a night, or two, at my apartment.” He braves a glance up to see that Martin’s face is frustratingly unreadable. He looks, Jon thinks, concerned, confused, and something else that just doesn’t make any sense. 

“As I told Tim and Sasha, I don’t wish to impose. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” But, even as Martin utters such politely practiced words, he shivers, pulling the blanket tighter around his frame, and he coughs quite a bit, always excusing himself. 

“You aren’t imposing,” Jon says, sighing. “I’m not... I won’t force you, of course, but I have experience sleeping roughly on that small cot, and I can only imagine how dreadful it would be while ill.” 

He’s not sure why he’s pushing, guilt maybe? Even though, he reminds himself, he did not instruct Martin to pursue follow-ups with this particular statement. Martin did that of his own accord, so really, Jon thinks, he should be angry by the blatant disobedience from one of his assistants, and yet, somewhere, he’s glad for Martin’s unruly persistence. He just wishes, now, that Martin would be a little more attentive to the weather before running off on one of his escapades. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I wasn’t,” Jon snaps, turning on his heel as Martin slides off the cot to gather a few things to take with him. 

\---------

“I’m not taking your bed, Jon, and that’s final.”

Jon slips his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He and Martin have been dancing around the same argument, back and forth, for the last fifteen minutes. He offered his bed because he knows how uncomfortable his couch is, and Martin all but threw a fit at the notion. If Jon weren’t completely annoyed, he’d find this pushy side of Martin rather interesting as it’s a clear contrast to how Martin acts around work. Still, he can’t dwell on the many sides of Martin Blackwood at the moment because said man is quite ill, his condition seeming to worsen every minute, and he won’t just take the damn bed. 

“Fine,” Jon spits out sharply as he disappears for some extra blankets to make the couch into a makeshift bed, slapping Martin’s hands away when he tries to help. 

He wordlessly gestures to the couch when he finishes, eye twitching against aggravation, and Martin sinks onto the couch, sighing, to Jon’s disbelief, in relief as he pulls two blankets up to his chin, his face relaxing for the first time in an hour. 

“This is nice, Jon, thank you. Seriously.”

“See if you can still say that tomorrow when your back’s twinging in pain,” Jon mutters as he moves to turn off lights. He’s quiet when he flicks each light switch, hearing soft snores after only a minute at the most. He can’t imagine how exhausted Martin must be, having barely slept for two weeks when... he experienced an uncertain and unfortunate situation, not quite ruled to be Jane Prentiss just yet. Pair that with the uncomfortable cot, fever, and a cough, and Jon’s surprised Martin hasn’t dropped sooner. 

He starts toward his bedroom, stopping by the arm of the couch where Martin’s head is resting. Without thinking anything through, he reaches down and ghosts a feather-light touch of his palm to Martin’s forehead, frowning sharply at the heat and making a mental note to inquire about medicine in the morning.

Martin sighs contently under his touch, and he jerks his hand back quickly, his heart thumping oddly fast against his rib cage, and stalks to his room to quietly record. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those moments where I still don't know what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway. 
> 
> Sorry if this is OOC. I just listened to Martin's statement in Season 1, so I've got a long way to go still. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Title taken from "Comfort Crowd" by Conan Gray)


End file.
